Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
'Tis a disease that follows all excellent men, they cannot govern their passions; but let him alone, try him one 'bout. I would try him, but what has all this to do with our Mask? O Sir, all de better vor an Antick-maske, de more absurd it be, and urom de purpose, it be ever all de better. If it go from de nature of ting it is de more Art: for dear is Art, and dear is Nature, you shall see. Hochos-pochos, Paucos, Palabros. IT is no dream, you all do wake, and see; Behold, who comes! (b) far-shooting Phoebus he That can both hurt and (c) heal; and with his (d) voice Rear Towns, and make societies rejoice; That taught the Muses all their harmony, And men the tuneful Art of Augury. Apollo stoops, and when a God descends, May Mortals think he hath no vulgar ends. LInus, and (g) Orpheus, (h) Branchus, (i) Idmon, all My sacred Sons, rise at your Fathers call From your immortal Graves; where sleep, not death, Yet binds your powers. Here. Here. What sacred breath Doth reinspire us? Who is this we feel? What heat creeps through me, as when burning steel Is dipped in water? I, Phoemonoe, Thy Father Phoebus 's fury filleth thee; Confess my Godhead; once again I call, Let whole Apollo enter in you all, And follow me. We fly, we do not tread, The Gods do use to ravish whom they lead. BEhold the love and care of all the Gods Of the Ocean, and the happy Isles; That whilst the World about him is at odds, Sits Crowned Lord here of himself, and smiles. To see the erring mazes of mankind; Who seek for that, doth punish them to find. PRince of thy Peace, see what it is to love The Powers above! Jove hath commanded me To visit thee; And in thine honour with my (l) Music rear a College here, Of tuneful Augurs, whose divining skill, shall wait thee still, And be the Heralds of his highest william. The work is done, And I have made their Precedent thy Son; Great Mars too, on these nights, hath added Salian rites. Yond, yond afar, They closed in their (o) Temple are, And each one guided by a star. Haste, haste, to meet them, and as they advance 'twixt every Dance; Let us interpret their Prophetic trance. WHich way, and whence the lightning flew, Or how it burned, bright, and blue, Design, and figure by your lights: Than forth, and show the several flights Your (p) Birds have made, or what the wing Or voice in Augury doth bring. Which hand the Crow cried on, how high The Vulture, or the Erne did fly, What wing the Swan made, and the Dove, The Stork, and which did get above: Show all the Birds of food or Prey, But pass by the unlucky Jay, The Night-Crow, Swallow, or the Kite Let those have neither right, CHOR. Nor part, In this night's art.
seed 43: T29 · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
'Tis a diſeaſe that followes all excellent men, they cannot governe their paſſions; but let him alone, try him one 'bout. I would try him, but what has all this to doe with our Maske? O Sir, all de better vor an Antick-maske, de more abſurd it be, and vrom de purpoſe, it be ever all de better. If it goe from de nature of de ting, it is de more Art: for deare is Art, and deare is Nature, yow ſall ſee. Hochos-pochos, Paucos, Palabros. IT is no dreame, you all doe wake, and ſee; Behold, who comes! far-ſhooting Phoebus he That can both hurt and heale; and with his voyce Reare Townes, and make ſocieties rejoyce; That taught the Muſes all their harmonie, And men the tunefull Art of Augurie. Apollo ſtoopes, and when a God deſcends, May Mortalls thinke he hath no vulgar ends. LInus, and Orpheus, Branchus, Idmon, all My ſacred Sons, riſe at your Fathers call From your immortall Graves; where ſleepe, not death, Yet bindes your powers. Here. Here. What ſacred breath Doth re-inſpire us? Who is this we feele? What heat creepes through me, as when burning ſteele Is dipt in water? I, Phoemonoe, Thy Father Phoebus's fury filleth thee; Confeſſe my Godhead; once againe I call, Let whole Apollo enter in you all, And follow me. We flie, we doe not tread, The Gods doe uſe to raviſh whom they lead. BEhold the love and care of all the Gods Of the Ocean, and the happie Iles; That whilſt the World about him is at ods, Sits Crowned Lord here of himſelfe, and ſmiles. To ſee the erring mazes of mankinde; Who ſeeke for that, doth puniſh them to finde. PRince of thy Peace, ſee what it is to love The Powers above! Jove hath commanded me To viſit thee; And in thine honour with my Muſique reare a Colledge here, Of tunefull Augures, whoſe divining skill, ſhall waite thee ſtill, And be the Heralds of his higheſt will. The worke is done, And I have made their Preſident thy Sonne; Great Mars too, on theſe nights, hath added Salian rites. Yond, yond afarre, They cloſed in their Temple are, And each one guided by a ſtarre. Haſte, haſte, to meet them, and as they advance 'twixt every Dance; Let us interpret their Prophetick trance. WHich way, and whence the lightning flew, Or how it burned, bright, and blew, Deſigne, and figure by your lights: Then forth, and ſhew the ſeverall flights Your Birds have made, or what the wing Or voyce in Augurie doth bring. Which hand the Crow cried on, how high The Vulture, or the Erne did flie, What wing the Swan made, and the Dove, The Storke, and which did get above: Shew all the Birds of food or Prey, But paſſe by the unluckie Jay, The Night-Crow, Swallow, or the Kite Let thoſe have neither right, CHOR. Nor part, In this nights art.